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Jan. 26th, 2009 12:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyfirestarterCharlie holds the dry twig at arm's length, focuses carefully and pushes the fire at it in a pinpoint line. The tip blossoms into flame -- and she reaches out, cups her hand around the flame, and pulls it back in.
The fire goes out. A rush of heat licks up her arm, flares through her entire body, and dissipates. She gasps at the feeling, sways on her feet, gropes for Prometheus's hand to steady herself --
That, she realizes dimly a half-second later, might have been a mistake. That same sensation redoubled runs up her arm from the touch of his hand, power and hunger and fierce exultation and heat, and phantom flames leap and dazzle at the edges of her vision.
Then it's passed, and she's standing there with her feet braced as though for acceleration and her breath coming quick, staring down at her hand in his. For the space of about four or five seconds, neither of them moves; then Charlie steps back, and raises their clasped hands, and very deliberately calls the fire again.
Flames wreathe upward around their intertwined fingers, red and gold.
Slowly, very slowly, her eyes come up again to meet his. He's smiling down at her in affection and understanding and pride, and reflected far back in his dark eyes (and in hers, if she could see herself) is a dancing flame.
A long brilliant moment, in which it seems impossible that the only point of contact between them is the knot of their joined hands. Her breath is still swift and heavy, her lips parted; she can feel her heart racing, feel the heat of the blood rising in her face, and the fire inside her -- the fire all through her -- stretches upward.
It only takes the slightest of movements to be in his arms.
(In the middle of the kiss, she abruptly strangles with a moment's suppressed laughter.)
(Tell you later, she murmurs to his questioning look.)
The fire goes out. A rush of heat licks up her arm, flares through her entire body, and dissipates. She gasps at the feeling, sways on her feet, gropes for Prometheus's hand to steady herself --
That, she realizes dimly a half-second later, might have been a mistake. That same sensation redoubled runs up her arm from the touch of his hand, power and hunger and fierce exultation and heat, and phantom flames leap and dazzle at the edges of her vision.
Then it's passed, and she's standing there with her feet braced as though for acceleration and her breath coming quick, staring down at her hand in his. For the space of about four or five seconds, neither of them moves; then Charlie steps back, and raises their clasped hands, and very deliberately calls the fire again.
Flames wreathe upward around their intertwined fingers, red and gold.
Slowly, very slowly, her eyes come up again to meet his. He's smiling down at her in affection and understanding and pride, and reflected far back in his dark eyes (and in hers, if she could see herself) is a dancing flame.
A long brilliant moment, in which it seems impossible that the only point of contact between them is the knot of their joined hands. Her breath is still swift and heavy, her lips parted; she can feel her heart racing, feel the heat of the blood rising in her face, and the fire inside her -- the fire all through her -- stretches upward.
It only takes the slightest of movements to be in his arms.
(In the middle of the kiss, she abruptly strangles with a moment's suppressed laughter.)
(Tell you later, she murmurs to his questioning look.)
